


The Miracle of the Resurrectionist

by Wasuremono



Category: Look Around You
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, St. Frankenstein's Day, vaguely secular-Christmas-flavored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasuremono/pseuds/Wasuremono
Summary: St. Frankenstein's Day is coming, and Ros and Peter rekindle an old flame.
Relationships: Peter Packard/Ros Lamb
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Miracle of the Resurrectionist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lonelywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, lonelywalker! I really enjoyed your prompts, and I took your "Peter and Ros are the S1 scientists" and ran with it. Trying to write something mostly straight-faced in the Look Around You canon was an interesting challenge, but I had a lot of fun. I hope you like it.
> 
> All Britpicking failures are entirely my own.

Peter Packard's phone rang on St. Frankenstein's Eighth-Eve, just as he was finally getting around to putting up his Jacob's ladder. It was a simple little tabletop model, just about the right size for the flat, but with an appropriately reverent level of power draw; Peter took the time to make sure the wiring was perfect, letting the phone ring on and on. Even now, well into what his mother still referred to as his "talking phase," Peter could do without unexpected telephone conversations. Besides, it was nearly midnight -- who would be calling him at that hour? Jack, looking for somebody to bore? Not that Jack's stories didn't have their moments, but it could wait, certainly.

Whoever it was on the phone was persistent, though. The phone was still ringing as the Jacob's ladder sparked to life, smelling cheerfully of ozone, and Peter yielded to inevitability and answered. "Jack? Let me guess, getting the band back together? An exciting reinvention of the sound?"

"I'm afraid not," said the voice on the other side of the line, feminine and familiar -- a voice that filled Peter with simultaneous shock and pleasant surprise, like biting into an apple and tasting trickster's pear instead. "It's Ros. Ros Lamb. I'm sorry. Were you expecting a call?"

"Just extrapolating from the data," said Peter, already feeling old patterns coming back; around Ros, it was shockingly easy to be scientific. "How are you, Ros? You're sounding back to human vocal range."

"Oh, I've been de-minimized for a few months -- off-season, you know. And, um, after Ron's accident..."

Ah, yes. He'd heard about that on the news: a fatal unpleasantness involving a rogue trouser press. "Of course. Ros, I'm sorry. I meant to call you." Had he? Yes, Peter realized, he had; some rather dim and ill-wired part of his brain had made a note of it, then forgotten to transmit it down the line. Rather typical.

"It's all right. I know you're not really a talker -- well, I suppose you are these days?"

"These days they even pay me for it," Peter said, but what he wanted to say was that she ought to know. That night in the supply closet... but that wasn't the thing to remind her of, at that moment. She was a recent widow. It was probably disrespectful, and besides, wasn't there some sort of quarantine?

"Oh, Peter. It really has been too long. Um, that's why I'm calling. It's silly, but would you mind some company for the holidays? It doesn't feel right to spend St. Frankenstein's alone. Unless you've got other plans?"

"A few dull BBC parties, but nothing I can't cancel. I'm afraid all I've got is a flat and a single Jacob's ladder, but I certainly wouldn't mind company."

"Just the one? Well, I can bring some decorations. I've still got a few from our days at the labs. It makes me remember -- do you remember the film they had us shoot? For the safety guidelines?"

Every day of his life, Peter thought. How could he possibly have forgotten? "As a matter of fact," he said, "I've got it on tape. We can reminisce, perhaps."

"Lovely. Why don't we meet up Second-Eve and make a weekend of it?"

That was Ros for you. Slightly cool at first, perhaps, but once she had an idea, she was off like a shot. "Lovely indeed. Imhotep's, six o' clock, then back to mine?"

"Certainly. I'll see you then, Peter."

"Be seeing you then," said Peter, and hung up before he could say any more. The trick was always to say about half of what you were thinking -- 40%, ideally -- to prevent imprudent speech or excess excitation. He'd learned that in his lab orientations, but it had served him well in television presentation and, he supposed, rather adequately in life. But with Ros Lamb...

Ros Lamb was a recent widow. The quarantines weren't entirely superstition, were they? And she'd dated Jack, although Peter wasn't sure precisely when. That was two counterarguments against the whole idea of meeting Ros again, and there were certainly more. Really, the only argument for it was a petulant schoolboy whine: _why not?_

No, Peter reminded himself, that wasn't just a schoolboy whine. That was the nature of science itself, the driving force, the heart of the method. Why not, indeed?

* * *

The days sped by, full of last-minute preparations Peter hadn't expected, and soon enough they were at Imhotep's, catching up over a family-style mahi mahi casserole. Ros had de-miniaturized rather nicely, all told; there was something faintly different about her proportions, a subtle lengthening of the legs and sharpening of the waist, but that could just as well have been the effects of athletics. The Ros he'd known hadn't even started training yet. Who was he to make assumptions?

They talked of nothing in particular, and Ros put away the lion's share of the casserole, until at last she set down her fork and looked up at the ceiling. In the moment of silence, Peter became acutely aware of the background music: anodyne, poppy versions of the traditional St. Frankenstein's carols. "Peter," said Ros, in a low conspiratorial whisper, "if I hear 'What Brain Is This?' one more time, I'm going to scream. Let's get the check."

Peter stole the last bite of casserole from the dish, then nodded. "Children's choirs are dreadful for everyone but the children. I'll cover the check if you call a cab."

Ros had brought her car, though: a sporty little four-door, back full of boxes, along with a bright golden Tesla coil, which Peter was charged with carrying when they made their way to his flat. He carried it over to the table with the Jacob's ladder, setting it down with a grunt. "Well, then. Let me get this wired in."

"Be sure to follow the diagram!" Ros was already digging out decorations: a rather homey-looking set of flasks and beakers, ringed with residue of many seasons of festive solutions, and a box labeled "NATIVITY" on a piece of tape. "For safety and cheer."

"I always do," Peter said, pausing, before the science-schoolboy urge of _why not?_ goaded him onward. "Still the diagram from the lab, from the old days. It's multi-purpose."

"Really? Funny. You know, this is the same nativity model from that lab? Not the precise one, but I bought a duplicate to practice for the film." Ros opened the box, looked inside for a moment, then turned to him. "Did you really say you had it on tape? It's silly. I just can't get it out of my head."

"I do." Peter felt an odd tremor in his hands, which felt shockingly empty as he stepped away from the Tesla coil. Why didn't he have a pencil at hand? "We could... watch it, if you like."

"I'd like that," said Ros. She smiled, a small nervous smile that sent Peter's nerves afire. "You have the tape handy?"

He'd had it set out by the player for days. As Ros took a seat on the couch, Peter headed towards the television. The Tesla coil could wait.

* * *

That first film had been for internal use, and a shabby production even by the standards of the educational film industry. The title card really was just a card, neatly lettered on graph paper: ST. FRANKENSTEIN'S DAY SAFETY IN THE LABORATORY. It cut immediately to Peter in lab coat and gloves, face blessedly out of frame as he fumbled with the controls of a Tesla coil. "St. Frankenstein's Day is a popular holiday in the laboratory," the voice-over began, "and we encourage its observation. However, as always, scientists must take utmost care that festivity does not disrupt the safety and accuracy of experiments. The rules that follow will allow you to create lasting St. Frank's memories without disrupting your research."

"Lasting memories," murmured Ros. "Funny how much it all blends together. Before we started with the films, it feels like it was all just... mix two things and wait for a disaster."

"That's science for you," said Peter. On the screen, his impossibly young past self was still working on the Tesla coil, following the complex diagram which the narrator reminded him could be found in the company's St. Frankenstein's Day SOP manual. Peter watched his past self move in mechanical, choreographed motions, and he remembered how he'd practiced at home for days before they'd filmed, and how his heart had been in his throat the whole time. It had been his first time in front of the camera, and he'd assumed it would be the only time.

Ros leaned in next to him, resting her hand lightly on his leg; Peter could feel blood rushing to his face and his cool beginning to dissolve. "Next is the nativity, I think?"

She was right. "For St. Frankenstein's nativities," the voice-over began, "ensure all figures are wearing appropriate personal protective equipment." On the screen, Ros's hands picked up each figure of the woefully non-compliant nativity in turn, sliding the Doctor's goggles into place and slipping on a miniature smock, mask, and matching blue surgical gloves. Igor received his own set, in the traditional brown, and the three lurking villagers in the background of the scene donned dark face shields to cut the glare from their single-bulb torches. It was fiddly work, and it should have been poison to the camera, and yet it seemed so...

"Effortless," Peter whispered. "You make it look so effortless. How is it that I'm the one of us on television?"

"Because you're the better talker." Ros put her weight on his shoulder; she was impossibly light, almost weightless. Some side effect of the di-tutetamine brohohibe, or of the de-miniaturization? Or had she always been this light? It was hard to remember now, especially with the warmth of Ros near him. "I never know what to say." 

Peter forced himself to keep focus on the film. On the screen, his past self gestured with a pencil at entries on a list of approved colors for festive St. Frankenstein's electrics. "Introduction of unexpected colors into the laboratory can have dangerous effects," said the voice-over. "Many chemical compounds are annoyed by certain wavelengths of the visible spectrum, or have unpleasant associations which may affect their behavior. Some become quite irascible."

When Peter spoke, it was slowly, cautiously: as if he was back in the lab again, trying his best not to irritate the chemicals. "I didn't then. Do you know, I was terrified every day at work? I thought science was my dream, but it turned out to be all these little rituals you did to keep things from exploding, and even then it didn't work half the time. I had nightmares about the Helvetica Scenario. So I was silent, and I was still, and I touched absolutely as little as possible, until you..."

Ros lifted her head and locked eyes with him, with just the faintest grin. "Until we shagged in the supply closet and nothing exploded? And then you told me it was 'rather good?'" 

"I know it wasn't much, Ros, but I'd practically forgotten I had a voice. I still didn't use it much in the films, but... it was you that put me on the path to this. To the films, to presenting. To appreciating science again." 

It was stupid to say it, Peter thought, and impossible not to. It hadn't lasted back then -- a few months, and then she'd been gone to other projects, other dreams -- and there was no reason to think it'd last now. Even spending a few days together was potentially disastrous. And yet...

And yet, Ros was here, and she was grinning with a glee he hadn't seen since the supply closet. "I admit," she said, "I never knew you were afraid. You were such a natural."

"Really? Even with the 'rather good?'"

"Well, it _was_ rather good..."

When they fell together onto the couch, Ros's hands were already working the buttons on Peter's shirt. She'd been just as good as dismantling his PPE, back in the supply closet and the happy months afterward, and Peter felt a near-schoolboyish rush of elation. He pulled Ros closer and kissed her with a rush of messy, fantastic hunger.

Some experiments, it seemed, were worth repeating.

* * *

When he woke up on St. Frankenstein's Eve, Peter was almost surprised to see Ros lying next to him, curled up in most of his duvet. He'd expected her to reconsider, to regret, to slip out in the early morning. (He'd expected her to be an early riser, really, but the snoring proved that wrong.) He crept out of the bedroom, slipped on his breakfasting robe, and set about the serious business of coffee. 

This had failed once, and the kindest thing he could say about that was that it hadn't failed catastrophically, just fizzled: a sad wet Petri dish full of germs instead of a moth-apple tree. A single fizzle didn't disprove the hypothesis, though -- and he should remember that on St. Frankenstein's, of all days. Most of the Doctor's experiments had fizzled. He'd produced nothing but a pile of sad, lightly-toasted corpses... and then he'd made a saint. 

Peter began humming the Carol of the Bolts as he started the coffee going. He doubted he had enough food in the flat to feed the Southport Sparrow, but the quiche joint down the street was surely open for takeaway. He'd have to get dressed, but that was a small price to pay. The fresh air might do him good -- imagine that! 

St. Frankenstein's Day was coming, and Peter felt electrified, hauled out of the grave and ready to live.


End file.
